


one hand over the other

by snowdarkred



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neglect, Pre-Canon, Reunions, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdarkred/pseuds/snowdarkred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't as if his parents beat him or anything. They were perfectly cordial, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one hand over the other

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the ever growing inception_kink meme, for the prompt: "Touch deprivation. Arthur is deprived of touch, Eames starts touching him all the time. Arthur doesn't understand why he allows it, or why he secretly even likes/needs it."
> 
> SINCE APPARENTLY THIS HAS BECOME A THING: I wrote this, like, two weeks after the movie came out. I know it has what became quickly fandom cliches. I know. 1) I was seventeen when I wrote this. Who writes super well at seventeen? 2) IT WAS TWO WEEKS AFTER THE MOVIE CAME OUT.

It wasn't as if his parents  _beat him_  or anything. They were perfectly cordial, in fact. They may have been on the distant side, but he had clothing that fit, a roof over his head, and more than enough food to fulfill his dietary needs. He had everything he needed. So what if his parents seemed a bit disinterested in what his grades were or what time he got in at night. Plenty of teens would kill for that kind of freedom. It just meant that they trusted him to do the right thing. And he did. He got straight A's on every report card, and he always came home before midnight. 

 

He may not have been the most hugged child in existence, or the most spoiled, but he had turned out alright.

 

It wasn't as if they beat him. They just didn't particularly love him, either.

 

\--- 

 

"Mr. Hansen, you have a behavioral problem," his very resigned guidance counselor informed him. Arthur stiffened even more in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He had an icepack pressed to the side of his face, and his lip was dotted with drying blood. His jaw hurt. Mrs. Hudson sighed again. "Honestly, what were you  _thinking_?" 

 

"He wouldn't stop tapping his pencil," Arthur said flatly. "Against my shoulder. It was annoying. I lost control; I apologize." He didn't sound apologetic. 

 

"Didn't your parents teach you restraint?" she asked with exasperation. 

 

"No," he said shortly. His parents had never taught him anything. Mrs. Hudson's lips pursed as she thought. This was Arthur's fifth trip to the office in as many weeks. There was clearly something going on, had been for awhile, although she had no idea what. 

 

"Then perhaps it would be best if you taught it to yourself," she said after a long, tense moment. "I can't keep running interference for you forever."

 

"Of course not," Arthur assured smoothly. Too smoothly, like he wasn't quite sure how to do it right. "Are we done here?" 

 

"Yes, go ahead. Just – try to keep yourself in check, alright?" She waved him towards the door. "I don't appreciate having to dig you out of trouble every other day." 

 

"Won't happen again," he told her. She believed him. 

 

\--- 

 

Two days later, Arthur Hansen stopped showing up to school. (A small fuss was kicked up around his disappearance, but it faded quickly, and by the end of year, hardly anyone remembered the thin dark haired kid who got into fights and avoided skin contact.)

 

\--- 

 

Four years later, Arthur Burgess walked away with three millions dollars in military money and one priceless experimental device. (The first thing he bought was a suit.)

 

\--- 

 

One year later, Arthur Solomon was infamous in the extraction business as a smooth, practical Point Man with a resume to match. (He owned a whole warehouse full of suits.) 

 

\--- 

 

Two years later, Arthur Pratt met Thomas Eames. (Four days after that he dropped the  _Pratt_  because it wasn't worth keeping it with an obnoxious Brit hanging around.)

 

\--- 

 

"Oh, hello there, gorgeous," the man whistled from the doorway. Arthur looked up from his notes, frowning. The man was sorely abusing paisley in every way possible, though you wouldn't know it from the confidence in his smirk or the set of his shoulders. He was handsome, too. "And who might you be?" 

 

Arthur ignored the question. "How did you get in here?" he asked in turn, stepping forward threateningly. Dom, Mal, and the rest of the extraction team wasn't scheduled to show up until tomorrow; Arthur had started preparing the subject's dossier early in his very temporary, very locked apartment. Which was also not the meeting place. 

 

"I picked the locks," the mysterious paisley abuser said cheerfully. "I'm here to see a man about a dream, actually." 

 

Arthur quirked an eyebrow. "And who is this man? We'll leave aside the breaking and entering for the moment." 

 

"I'm looking for a Mr. Pratt?" Mystery Paisley Abuser Man said, looking uncertain for the first time. "Cobb directed me here. I do hope I've come to the right address."

 

"You have: I am Arthur Pratt." 

 

Mystery Paisley Abuser Man stared in disbelief. And stared. And stared. And stared. 

 

"Bloody hell, there is a god!" he exclaimed with a broad smile. "And here I thought you were just a handsome boy-toy the man kept on the side." He stepped forward and raised his hand to Arthur's cheek as if to touch him. 

 

Arthur flinched. 

 

Mystery Paisley Abuser Man looked rather intrigued.

 

\--- 

 

For the most part, the job went smoothly, after Arthur had satisfied his desire to shoot Eames – for that was apparently Mystery Paisley Abuser Man's name – in the face repeatedly. 

 

\--- 

 

It wasn't as if Arthur was against the  _idea_  of touching. People connecting through the senses, blah blah blah. It just wasn't for him. He didn't like being touched, and he didn't particularly like touching other people – at least, beyond professionally, like punching someone in the face. No matter what others thought, he didn't think that this meant that he was _broken_. He didn't need to be  _fixed._

 

He was just...exercising restraint. 

 

\--- 

 

Arthur wanted very much to hate Eames. Eames kept  _touching_  him. He was snarky and biting and damnably attractive, and he wouldn't stop touching.

 

And Arthur kept flinching away. God, he almost hated  _himself_. 

 

But he couldn't do that, because there was nothing wrong with not wanting to be touched. Nothing at all. It was natural to expect professionals to act with  _professionalism_  while on a job. Everyone else he worked with behaved properly. Just not Eames. 

 

It drove Arthur  _insane_. 

 

\--- 

 

Time passed, as it does. Arthur found himself doing several jobs with Eames, because the man was very good at what he did, and Arthur liked working with the best. 

 

He was doomed. 

 

\--- 

 

"God, are you warring against personal space?" Arthur snapped one day a few months later, after the seventh time in as many minutes Eames had used an increasingly flimsy excuse to brush against him, or touch his hand, or lean in just a hair too close. "Are you trying to get me to shoot you again? Were you touched in a bad place as a child and therefore think that this is acceptable behavior?"

 

Arthur was an asshole. Even he was surprised by the heights his asshole-ishness reached on occasion. 

 

Eames raised an eyebrow, an expression he copied from Arthur. "No. And I don't think you were touched at all.” Christ, he looked _pitying_. “You're a little jumpy, darling."

 

Arthur slammed the binder he was looking through down on the desk. He got up, collected his very expensive jacket from the back of his chair, and left. It was the first and only time that Arthur had ever walked away from a job that was only partially complete. He felt like a failure every step of the way.

 

\--- 

 

He didn't talk to Eames again for months. Three months, actually, not that he was particularly paying attention to it. It was just...in his nature to keep track of time. 

 

\--- 

 

"Darling—" Eames started to say when they saw each other again. Mal had just died – had just  _killed herself_ , Jesus Christ, she  _jumped_  – and Arthur wasn't in the mood. When Eames reached for him with clear intent, Arthur grabbed him, twisted, and pinned the Brit to the floor with his arm caught painfully behind him. 

 

"Stop. Touching. Me," Arthur hissed. He was breathing heavily. He was angry. He was so angry, and he didn't understand why, because this wasn't like him. His hand was wrapped around Eames' wrist. His knee was pressed against Eames' back. He was practically sitting on him. This wasn't— 

 

This time Arthur didn't walk. This time he ran. 

 

\--- 

 

Eames was in Mombasa. 

 

Arthur was in Paris. 

 

Eames was gambling and drinking. 

 

Arthur was trying to figure out how to get his best friend back to the United States without getting them all killed. 

 

\--- 

 

Eames acted as if nothing had changed. As if Arthur hadn't thrown him to the ground the last time they'd been in the same room with each other. Arthur, of course, was the picture of professionalism, but that was hardly unusual. 

 

Eames teased and pushed and  _touched_ , and Arthur was tired of walking away.

 

\--- 

 

Arthur kissed Ariadne. As a practice run. He thought it went rather well, if only because he didn't have a panic attack or anything similarly embarrassing. Besides, it was for the job. 

 

\--- 

 

In room 528, two levels down: 

 

 **Eames:**   _Security is going to run you down hard._  

 **Arthur:** _And I will lead them on a merry chase._  

 **Eames:**   _Just be back before the kick._

 **Arthur:**   _Go to sleep, Mr. Eames._  

 

Arthur kept his hold on Eames' wrist as he went down another level. He stayed as long as he dared.

 

\--- 

 

"Well, Mr. Pratt," Eames smirked. They watched the baggage claim circle again. "Where are you disappearing off to next?" 

 

"I was thinking we could get something to eat," Arthur said, pretending not to notice the surprise that filtered across Eames' face. He wasn't  _that_  predictable. "Together."

 

"Alright," Eames said after a moment. "I know a great place." 

 

Arthur put his hand on the small of Eames' back. Palm flat, fingers spread, full contact. "Lead the way, Mr. Eames."

 

\--- 

 

Arthur was exercising admirable restraint. Considering where he really wanted to put his hand.


End file.
